


i'm Vulnerable, so vulnerable

by FrostyJuniper



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide, Unrequited Love, its sad, please only read if in good mental state, thot alexander hamilton, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-04 18:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18349007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostyJuniper/pseuds/FrostyJuniper
Summary: Alexander changes. And John doesn't handle it well.---------------------------------------------------------Please be careful, this has descriptions of suicide, self-harm and blood in general.Based off the song I am not a Robot by Marina and the Diamonds





	1. Chapter 1

Alexander had changed. There was something about him now, something that hadn’t been there before. When they met, Alexander was but a boy, excited and energetic and idealistic, ready to believe the world was finally giving him a break. He had been so innocent, so kind. And now? John swallowed the lump in his throat. Now he had morphed. His sweetness turned into emotional manipulation, a willingness to toss anyone aside, so scared of making a commitment that he covers it up with black nail polish and a hickey on his neck. John was all for doing what you wanted, but Alex seemed to be teetering on a precipice, one wobble from falling off. He acted so tough, but John knew what was inside. A child, a baby so afraid of rejection that he hid himself in a cloud of cigarette smoke and pain. John looked down at the chair standing under him, the noose around his neck and kicked the chair away. He wasn't a robot. How had this all started, he thought as he slipped into blackness. How?

They were sitting underneath the stars on a red wooly blanket that scratched their faces. Distantly, John thought of Alexander's stubble, it was the same scratch. His hair shone under the dim light of the crescent moon and it illuminated his eyes, turning them not the golden brown that the sunlight would make them, but a rich, earthy color that reminded John of freshly-tilled soil. 

“I can't handle it anymore, you know? They all hate me. Why can't I just be like George? He doesn't worry about anything, he always looks nice and everybody likes him. If I changed, wouldn't they like me too?” Alexander looked close to tears, his baggy sweater and jeans falling off his form. “Why can't I change?”

John hugged him, what else could he do? But the next day, when Alex showed off his new painted nails, he knew what it meant. It meant that Alexander was ready to be something he wasn't. When, two days later, he was wearing things that he, to John, was obviously uncomfortable in, no one else seemed to notice. When, a week later he was hanging out with George King, who he never liked, John just wanted his Alexander back. 

He was vulnerable, so vulnerable. Whenever they fought, no matter what he would burst into tears, tough facade crumbling like walls. No matter how he acted, he wasn't a robot. He couldn't hide it. But he was lovable, so lovable. No matter what he did, how many times he tried to have someone else catch his eye, Alexander was there. Alex was troubled, wasn't he? Or was he trouble?

He was magnetic, everyone loved him now. Was the real Alexander still in there? He didn't commit to anything anymore, every day he changed his choice, and everyday John's heart crumbled a bit more as he watched Alexander manipulate them all. He wasn't a robot, he couldn't stand there and watch stoically as his best friend, the person he loved swirled down the drain. Was anything worth it anymore? And that was the day that John picked up his first razor and let the pressure out. 

And, when they, half a year later, kissed, John thought it had finally happened. But the next day, one day after Alex had been murmuring sweet things into his ear, he showed up with messy hair, a hickey and black nail polish again. 

John let the phone ring. And ring. And ring. He was probably at Thomas’s today. Or maybe Charles. Or George. Or Sam. Why wouldn't he pick up the phone? It just took a few minutes. He was crying, shaking. Maybe he was vulnerable, but Alexander was the lovable one. He wasn't a robot. He couldn't do this anymore. He didn't feel real, maybe he was just an illusion.

And when Alexander called later that day, he was already dead. The noose around his neck had killed him easily. And when Alexander found him, he could do nothing but cry. Because this one was his fault, even if all the other deaths weren't. John was his fault. Because he wanted to be a robot.


	2. Question?

Authors note: Happy ending, sad ending or I post both. I know, I know, this was supposed to be a one-shot but I wanted to write it from Alex's point of view.


	3. Sad

Change seemed like the easiest option. Wasn’t that how it worked? Alex had lived his whole life like that, packing up again and again whenever he had to leave. He wasn’t sure who he was sometimes. Was he the rebel, the model student, the shy kid? They blurred together, he couldn’t pick out his own personality anymore. And then came John. John was easy to be himself around. He was kind hearted, he was sweet, he was hilarious. But Alex knew what would happen, he would leave too. Why wouldn’t he? But Alex let himself get attached, far too attached. All good things have to come to an end, and John was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Why did they hate him so much? Why couldn’t he build the same walls? He knew why, in the end, but was giving up the best thing he had really fair payment? They hated John, he knew, because he had his own opinion, because of that fire that burned deep. John would just be hurt more if he stuck around with him. Better to be loved for what you’re not than to be hated. He couldn’t be vulnerable anymore. 

He needed to change.

It came in a haze, black nail polish and scratchy tight clothes that he didn't like. He got used to the feel of lips on his skin and a tongue in his mouth. The smell of cigarette smoke and his hair in a ponytail. Was he even real anymore? But they liked him now. Thomas, George, Charles, James and Sam. He didn't trust them, didn't like them, but means to an end. As long as the end was alright.

He knew John wasn't happy with it. But he wasn't sure what hurt more. Was it seeing John unhappy? Or being bullied. So he learned how to twirl his hair around his fingers and keep his heart in his chest where no one could find it. 

The sad part is, he remembered that day. He was sitting on his bed with Thomas, letting him pretend that he was the person whom he loved. He remembered turning off the phone and saying that it was nothing, biting his lip as he lay against a pillow and smiled. And three hours later, when Thomas had gone and he called John back, he remembered the worry that began deep in his gut, the malignant feeling that something wasn't right. So he got in his car and he drove to John's.

As he stood outside the little off-white house, and grabbed the spare key so he could get in, it only increased. The house was far too quiet, and John's phone was sitting on his nightstand, the little charm Alex had given him for it still on. With a feeling of dread running through his veins he searched the house, the bathroom, the bedroom, the kitchen, the living room. Until the last door remained and Alex peered into the basement. Each thudding step down the steps rang in his ears and as he turned the corner, his worst fear became true. a knocked over chair, and John hanging from a noose, face blue and skin still warm. Frantically, he ripped it down, checking for some sort of pulse, anything.

However, there was nothing, not even a single faint thrum anywhere to be found, and with the last glimmer of hope gone, he let himself break down, sobbing into John’s favorite sweater, the soft blue one that he had worn as much as possible. And as he grabbed the little slip of paper with his shaking hands and read the last message John would send to the world, he heard a scream, grief-filled. And after a few beats, he realized it was his. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. This one was all his fault. All because he only knew change.


	4. Happy

Change seemed like the easiest option. Wasn’t that how it worked? Alex had lived his whole life like that, packing up again and again whenever he had to leave. He wasn’t sure who he was sometimes. Was he the rebel, the model student, the shy kid? They blurred together, he couldn’t pick out his own personality anymore. And then came John. John was easy to be himself around. He was kind hearted, he was sweet, he was hilarious. But Alex knew what would happen, he would leave too. Why wouldn’t he? But Alex let himself get attached, far too attached. All good things have to come to an end, and John was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Why did they hate him so much? Why couldn’t he build the same walls? He knew why, in the end, but was giving up the best thing he had really fair payment? They hated John, he knew, because he had his own opinion, because of that fire that burned deep. John would just be hurt more if he stuck around with him. Better to be loved for what you’re not than to be hated. He couldn’t be vulnerable anymore. 

He needed to change.

It came in a haze, black nail polish and scratchy tight clothes that he didn't like. He got used to the feel of lips on his skin and a tongue in his mouth. The smell of cigarette smoke and his hair in a ponytail. Was he even real anymore? But they liked him now. Thomas, George, Charles, James and Sam. He didn't trust them, didn't like them, but means to an end. As long as the end was alright.

He knew John wasn't happy with it. But he wasn't sure what hurt more. Was it seeing John unhappy? Or being bullied. So he learned how to twirl his hair around his fingers and keep his heart in his chest where no one could find it. 

The sad part is, he remembered that day. He was sitting on his bed with Thomas, letting him pretend that he was the person whom he loved. He remembered turning off the phone and saying that it was nothing, biting his lip as he lay against a pillow and smiled. And three hours later, when Thomas had gone and he called John back, he remembered the worry that began deep in his gut, the malignant feeling that something wasn't right. So he got in his car and he drove to John's.

As he stood outside the little off-white house, and grabbed the spare key so he could get in, it only increased. The house was far too quiet, and John's phone was sitting on his nightstand, the little charm Alex had given him for it still on. With a feeling of dread running through his veins he searched the house, the bathroom, the bedroom, the kitchen, the living room. Until the last door remained and Alex peered into the basement. Each thudding step down the steps rang in his ears and as he turned the corner, his worst fear became true. a knocked over chair, and John hanging from a noose, face blue and skin still warm. Frantically, he ripped it down, checking for some sort of pulse, anything.

A faint thrum was there, a small tale of a still beating heart. Adrenaline filled, he called 911. He went through the motions, one set, then two breaths, another set, two breaths, until the ambulance arrived and took them both away. He was in shock, barely breathing, but when he got the news that John would survive, he fell over, asleep. He was tired. But at least they were both alive.


End file.
